“They are Dorothy Miller’s very newest ones,” persuaded Maude, not disclosing the fact that a color-blind aunt had given them to Dorothy for Christmas. “She got them because—because her aunt read in ‘The Well Dressed Woman’ that pink silk stockings should always be worn to ice cream festivals.”
“Did she really?” demanded round-eyed Augusta.
“Pink and green,” declared Maude, hastily holding up the starched skirt to hide her own smiling countenance, “are complementary colors, Mrs. Henry says. You wear them together. The pink brings out the green and the green brings out the pink. And robin’s egg blue—that’s your soul color, Augusta.”
“It doesn’t match the skirt,” objected Augusta.
“It matches your eyes,” said Maude. “Oh, Henrietta! Her feet are beautiful! Yes, I like the bows on her pumps.”
“Ouch!” gasped Augusta, “you did burn my ear.”
“I’ll be more careful,” promised Cora, whose shoulders were shaking. “Just two more lovely curls and I’ll be done—you never saw such adorable curls. Much nicer than Gladys’s.”
“Now the pink sweater,” said Henrietta.
Suddenly there was a crash outside the door, a sound of giggling and of swift scurrying. It was Mabel’s turn at the transom; and the chair had tipped over. Her friends hustled her across the hall along with the chair and examined them both. There were bruises but nothing broken.
“What was that?” gasped Augusta. “Something hit my door.”